


Infield Fly

by orphan_account



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 12:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Armie takes one look at the rookie’s slim legs under the sheen of his uniform and knows if he gets his hand on this man’s ass, he’s not gonna remove it for quite a while. He keeps staring just long enough to catch the name on the back of the new guy’s jersey as he jogs down to the locker room. Chalamet.I wrote this in an hour and the goal was fluff so I didn't prioritize making the baseball 100% factually correct.





	Infield Fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LockLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LockLove/gifts).



Armie’s always assumed he’s tall enough to catch anything. So when the fly ball sails past his head, in the sweet spot between his neck and the glove he’d put up to catch it, he readies himself for the groans of a disappointed audience, the held breath to see if a run will score. Instead there’s cheering, his teammates running for the dugout and clapping, the game over with their 3-2 lead preserved. Armie spins to see the new shortstop, a kid so new Armie hasn’t even had a chance to learn his name, beaming with the ball nestled safely in his glove.

Armie jogs toward the dugout, where everyone’s waiting to congratulate the rookie on a clutch play. Normally Armie tends toward bro-ish affection in this situation. Normally he’d slap the guy’s ass, tousle his hair. But no one else on the team has this guy’s crooked grin and freckled nose, his wheezing laugh as he soaks in the admiration of his teammates. Armie takes one look at the rookie’s slim legs under the sheen of his uniform and knows if he gets his hand on this man’s ass, he’s not gonna remove it for quite a while. He keeps staring just long enough to catch the name on the back of the new guy’s jersey as he jogs down to the locker room. Chalamet.

It would be rude not to congratulate his new teammate, Armie tells himself as he descends the stairs to a room where he knows this man is likely to be removing his clothes. Just good sportsmanship, that’s all. When he gets to the locker room no one’s there yet except Chalamet, still dressed and rummaging through his duffel bag. As Armie watches, Chalamet pulls off his cap, shakes out a mop of sweaty curls. Well. That’s not taking his clothes off, but it might as well be. Before he can start to wonder if the longest curls ever tickle Chalamet’s neck when he’s trying to fall asleep at night, Armie forces himself to take a step forward, clear his throat, extend a hand. 

“Hey, I’m Armie Hammer, third base. Awesome play there, man. You won us the game.”

“I’m Timothée.” It’s not just a name, it’s a cocktail, and Armie’s already drunk. “But you can call me Timmy. And I--I know who you are. I got the pleasure of watching you from behind for most of the game.” Timmy flips his cap onto the duffel and heads into the showers while Armie’s still wordlessly gaping behind him.

In the bus on the way home Timmy sits in front of Armie at first, but after half an hour or so slides into the seat next to Armie without even asking. The rest of the team always lets Armie sit alone while they travel, assuming a guy his size would want extra room. Frankly, Armie misses having someone else to talk to on the long hours on the road. And Timmy folds himself perfectly into the space like a paper crane, starts quizzing Armie about where he went to college, making fun of the diner specials in the nowhere towns they’re passing through.

Sometime during Timmy’s monologue Armie falls asleep, and when he wakes up he’s not cramped and crumpled into the empty seat beside him like usual. It takes him a second to figure out why. Timmy’s curls are resting on his shoulder, on a damp spot where he’d fallen asleep before they were even fully dry. And Armie’s head rests on his in return. Armie doesn’t have the heart to wake Timmy and move him, or so he tells himself, and he quietly falls back asleep to the sound of their shared breathing.

Their final game of the season is the next night at their home field. It’s the field where Armie grew up watching games, dreaming of doing exactly what he’s doing now, and so he gets there an hour before anyone else, while the field’s still empty and he can stand in the bleachers and feel the anticipation of the space before the crowd fills it with their hopes. There’s the first nip in the air that means autumn is coming, and Armie shivers in his thin warmup jacket.

“Chilly?” The voice makes him jump. He turns to see Timmy in the same jacket, curls tamed again under a cap, idly stretching one long leg against the back of the seats.

“A little. I like it, though.” Armie shoves his hands in his pockets, balls his fists up in hopes of curbing the desire to touch that seems to come over him whenever Timmy is in the same zip code. “Reminds me of coming here as a kid to watch games. I used to daydream about kissing a boy on these bleachers, some night after a game when everything smells like beer and old peanuts.”

“How about before a game? When everything smells like cut grass and floodlights?” Timmy’s voice is right beside him, and Armie has a split second to think god he’s fast and might have started to analyze what good that could do for their team, except suddenly Timmy’s lips are on his and his tongue is as warm as the rest of the world is cold, and then statistics are the last thing on Armie’s mind.

Somehow, he still plays a game of baseball later that night. Somehow, he makes a crucial out in the fifth inning and somehow, when he’s up to bat in the eighth, he sees Timmy on second straight ahead of him and although he’d swear he didn’t see or think of anything else in the world, he hits a line drive and he and Timmy score the winning runs.

It feels great to be cheered by his team afterward, champagne and Gatorade running through his hair and down his neck, but it’s even better to wait with Timmy until the locker room is empty and then take their time washing it all out again. He tangles his hands in Timmy’s curls. Timmy soaps up his chest and starts tickling him instead of washing the soap off. They do speed drills across the tiled floor, chasing and catching and chasing each other until they slip into a pile of limbs under the spray. Timmy’s mouth is a warm surprise around Armie’s cock, and when Armie reaches between Timmy’s legs to return the favor their sloppy kisses and come-covered hands keep them in the locker room for another hour.

When they finally leave the night is crisp and dark and the floodlights are out. Timmy reaches for Armie’s pinky finger with his own, swinging their hands together gently as they head to the parking lot.

“You know,” Armie smiles mischievously, “I’d love to ask you back to my place but during the season I need a lot of rest.”

Timmy’s eyes glint just as brightly. “Good thing the season’s been over for two hours.” He rests his hand on Armie’s car door. “Sounds like you’ve got me all night.”

**Author's Note:**

> dreamofhorses42 on Tumblr


End file.
